contradicting truths.

I’m not really sure what I’m doing. I’m never really sure. I’m sitting in a half-finished room of a half-finished life. I guess I don’t really want the life to be finished, because that could only mean one thing. The room I would kind of like to complete. Except it’s never complete; I continually bring in new things. Make new things. Write new things. Hang new pictures on the walls.

I feel alone and yet not alone at all. Isolated but included. I think everyone feels this, at least at some point.

And no one cares, except when they themselves are going through it. Even then, all they want to do is talk about themselves to someone else. Someone sympathetic who isn’t actually sympathetic at all because all they want to do is talk about their own problems.

My, how selfish we all are.

I’m such a mess.